The day-to-day music news cycle can be a bit of a slog. Artist announces album, artist premieres track, artist premieres video, artist announces tour, artist streams album, blah blah blah, over and over again. But every once in awhile, something wonderfully bizarre happens. Somebody carves a giant wooden penis, or live-Tweets "The Little Mermaid", or performs an eight-hour synth jam. Something happens that is so out of the ordinary, we all sit up and go, "WTF".

All successful men are self-made in hindsight, and their memoirs prefer to dwell on struggle and talent over support and good luck. Morrissey is no exception: "It is quite true," he says near the end of Autobiography(which was released in Europe in October and comes out this week in the U.S.), "that I have never had anything in my life that I did not make for myself." Of course that’s debatable, but if you’re buying a Morrissey book, you surely expect narcissism. You might also expect wit, vendettas, pettiness and tenderness, music nerd pedantry, a perceptive critical eye, and real insight into the man’s work. You would only be disappointed with the last.